


Mirror Mirror

by abby_enchanted



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hell, Angst and Humor, Devil louis, Humor, I promise, I'm suprised they actually had that tag, LITERALLY, M/M, Supernatural Elements, but it gets better, it's a mess for a bit, there's a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abby_enchanted/pseuds/abby_enchanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But none of what Liam said really matters, and Harry can’t remember half of it. No matter how you spin it, Harry ended up at St Augustine’s Lutheran Church anyways, with a tote bag full of seemingly innocent items. He’s got his headphones in, blaring the cheesiest pop tunes he could find, even though the online instructions told him not to bring any electronics. </p><p>What’s the point of summoning the devil if you can’t take pictures to show your ex?"</p><p>(Or the one where Louis just might be the actual Devil, and Harry is sometimes stupid.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

In Harry’s defense, he’s really not an occult-obsessed guy. Yeah, he has an Ouija board collecting dust in his closet, and maybe that sheer shirt with the black upside-down crosses wasn’t the best purchase he’s ever made, but everyone has little things like that. 

There’s no defense, however, for the stupid shit he’s attempting now.

Liam had tried to sway him from it. “It’s stupid, Harry,” He’d chided, “It won’t even work. You’ll be breaking and entering for nothing.” Harry hadn’t been convinced; not even turning from the game of FIFA Niall was whipping his ass at.  “I know Nick told you that you were boring. I get it, it sucked and it’s an awful thing to say when dumping someone. But Nick’s an… a…”

"Dickwad?” Niall offered.

Liam paused, “Sure. Whatever. The point is he’s awful. You don’t need to pull some stupid stunt to prove yourself to him. Especially when it involves… well…”

But none of what Liam said really matters, and Harry can’t remember half of it. No matter how you spin it, Harry ended up at St Augustine’s Lutheran Church anyways, with a tote bag full of seemingly innocent items. He’s got his headphones in, blaring the cheesiest pop tunes he could find, even though the online instructions told him not to bring any electronics.

What’s the point of summoning the devil if you can’t take pictures to show your ex? He’s also got a printout of those instructions with the important parts highlighted, a mirror that used to hang on his door, seven red (cinnamon scented) candles, a can of Kocher salt, a box of matches from the hotel he and Nick stayed in when they went to Moscow, and a long red ribbon.

Harry heads around to the back door, which he might have hinted to the maintenance man, would make him _so grateful_ if it were to be left unlocked. “I just want to get some extra praying in. Get closer to God.” He’d explained with a smile and flutter of his eyelashes 

He wipes his hands on his black pants, palms sweating already. Harry tugs the door open and steps inside. The door wooshes shut behind him, taking away the only light source. Taking a deep breath, he leans on the nearest structure he can find and waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

Once he can make out enough to not bump into anything, he sinks into a pew. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Harry says aloud. “It won’t work. 

 So, he thinks, why am I so freaked out?

-

He decides on a Sunday school classroom, mostly because the murals of Jesus smiling and holding baby ducks/children/the sick/the poor, etc., comforts him. It takes him a few minutes to get everything set up. Harry leans the mirror against the wall, secures the red ribbon around it with a double knot, and makes a thick half circle of salt. He doubles up the amount of salt, until the can is empty and a half-inch-high barrier sits between him and the mirror.

Harry sets out the seven candles, trying his best to keep the spacing even. With hands that are only shaking slightly, he strikes the match. It takes four tries to get the first lit, and then three more matches to make sure all of the candles are lit.  

Once that’s done, Harry pauses and takes a step back. It’d be easy enough to just leave now, Harry thinks. He could disassemble everything and walk away with no more than just a bit of embarrassment. The only thing that stops him is Nick.

Walking away now is what Nick would expect. And he came here to prove Nick wrong, didn’t he?

So, Harry stands and walks to the door, but instead of leaving he turns the crucifix hanging on the wall upside down, and then drags his hand down to the light switch.

This is it, Harry thinks. No chickening out now. He turns the light off and his corner of the windowless room becomes dark, save for the warm light the candles gives off. Harry makes his way back to the mirror and sits cross-legged, glad he picked pants that were loose enough to allow him to do so.

Staring into the mirror, Harry’s mind goes blank. He pulls his instruction packet out of his bag and flips through it.

_“_ _Face the mirror and stare deeply into it, concentrating on your desired outcome. There are no incantations, no arcane strings of Latin you have to recite. Just look into the mirror and wish as hard as you can for the Devil to appear there. After a few moments of this, when you feel ready, close your eyes and count to ten. Then open them.”_

Harry hums and haws for a few minutes, not really wanting to just stare into a mirror. With a sense of finality, Harry lays down the instructions, rests his chin in his hand, and stares.

And stares.

And stares.

When his eyes get sore, Harry closes them and begins to count.

_One_

Harry’s really not looking forward to the results.

_Two_

No matter if the devil’s there or not.

_Three_

Honestly?

_Four_

He’s a little disappointed at the ceremony.

_Five_

A little Latin would’ve at least created some atmosphere.

_Six_

“Do I know any Latin?”

_Seven_

Hm…

_Eight_

“Carpe Diem.”

_Nine_

That’s a little better.

_Ten_

Harry opens his eyes and _holy shit that is not at all what I expected._

There’s a rather shocking absence of blood red skin, horns, hooves, and anything you might normally associate with the Devil. Instead, a pair of dazzling blue eyes stares back at Harry. Of course, there’s a face along with the eyes. (A rather lovely fairy-like face) Harry’s surprised, to say the least. His mouth is dry, and if he thought his palms were sweaty before, they’re in a whole new league now.

The Devil- though Harry really doesn’t think that word could possibly apply to the man staring back at him- chuckles. In a deep rasping voice that shakes the room and the contents of it, he speaks.

“I smell… _cinnamon_. I am enraged!” On the last word, the background in the mirror bursts into flame. Harry reels back in fear, but is careful not to look away from the mirror. That part of the instructions was highlighted and triple underlined in red.

The flames fade and the Devil starts to laugh. In a voice that’s significantly more pleasant, and doesn’t cause any effects on the room Harry sits in, he says, “Mate, I’m just fucking with you.” Though fucking comes out more like “fookin”, so Harry giggles a little, despite his situation. The Devil’s face becomes serious.

“Are you laughing at me?”

Harry shook his head quickly.

“Then let’s get down to business. What do you desire, human?”

Harry has to search for the words. He starts to reach for his instruction packet again, but the Devil smirks and Harry drops his hand. Harry licks his chapped lips and threads his hands together.

Did the packet say the exact words were necessary? Or what the words were? He can’t remember now.

“I wish…” He begins, slowly, “to challenge you in a game of question-and-response.”

The Devil, in response, simply begins the game. “What is the air-speed-velocity of an un-laden swallow?”

Harry pauses. He’s sure the instructions warned him that this would happen, that the questions would be near impossible. “Um… African or European?” He says, with a wry smile.

The Devil smiles. 

“Clever human… you may ask me your question now." 

“Aren’t you going to tell me if I was wrong or right?”

“That’s the entire game, pet.” Harry frowns at the (literal) pet name. Harry is stunned. He didn’t think he’d actually be able to summon the Devil, let alone think ahead of a question he’d want to know. So, he pulls out his phone. “Lovely case.” The Devil notes, and Harry just might be a little freaked out. To make things worse, he realizes that he has no service. Not a single bar.

He’s beginning to think a room in a church basement not matter how cheery the murals, may not have been the best choice for a Devil summoning ceremony.

“Um… if I take a picture of you, will it show up?” The Devil raises his eyebrows.

“Never heard that one before…” He shrugs. “Am I a vampire?” Harry waits for the rest of the answer, but it never comes. Instead, the Devil presses his mouth into a thin, firm line. His eyes flicker over the various points of Harry’s face, but Harry doesn’t look from the spot right between his eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Harry,” comes the soft reply.

There’s no prompt for anything more. Harry can dimly remember something about the power of a name in the instructions, but it’s so hard to think back to all those paragraphs. There’s a magnetic pull towards the mirror, but Harry knows he can’t knock over the candle or breach the salt circle. That’s when all Hell would literally break through.

The Devil seems to mull over the answer, though it’s just a name. Only five letters, two syllables, completely insignificant. He draws out his next words. “Well, Harry, has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly beautiful?”

 What happens next is a reflex. It’s a stupid reflex, and Harry realizes it the second he’s fully turned his face from the mirror to hide his blush. He’s lost sight of the person in the mirror. Harry’s mind reels to remember what the consequence is. He figures it out the moment he turns back to look at the mirror.

 It’s empty, except for Harry’s own bewildered face.

 Once he’s registered this fact, and as soon as the dread starts to sink in, all the candles are blown out by a sudden gust. The salt is scattered, and the mirror falls forwards and shatters, some shards even reaching Harry.

 Harry jumps up and runs for the door. The lock clicks as soon as he gets his hand on the knob. It’s a cruel game, and even though he knows he’s trapped, Harry still tries. He pulls out his phone, but before he can even check the amount of bars he has, the screen shatters just a violently as the mirror and goes black.

 Out of options, he tucks himself into a corner, and despite his best efforts, whimpers pitifully. Though he can’t see anything, he can _feel_ something materialize out of the darkness. Harry counts the footsteps, hears them get louder and feels the floorboards beneath his feet tremble with the weight of whatever’s coming. Harry can feel the same weight pressing in around him. The footsteps get to their loudest and stop abruptly.

 Suddenly, there’s an arm on either side of Harry, boxing him in. Two blue eyes seem to appear out of nowhere, and with a sinking feeling, Harry realizes the last time he saw those eyes, they were on the other side of the mirror. Harry wishes he would’ve grabbed a mirror shard, and then he’d at least have something to defend himself. He’s not even sure that’d work on the Devil, and he’s not even sure –or willing to believe- that this is even real.

 But the breath he can feel on his face is too real to be ignored, nor can the frantic beating of his heart be waved away as a dream.

 “So,” comes a voice, and Harry doesn’t even want to think about who that voice belongs to, “I think it’s your turn to ask me a question.”

 Harry wants to say that he doesn’t want to play this game anymore, and that he’s done. He wants to duck under one of the arms caging him in, walk out of the room, go back to his shared flat, make himself a cup of tea, and climb into bed. But Harry’s not that stupid. He’s stupid enough to get himself into his situation, but not stupid enough to think he can just get out of it now.

 His mind’s going a mile a minute, and he can’t get a reasonable question to form in his head. It takes a few moments of his mouth simply opening and closing with no sound before he gets it right.

 “Is there any chance of me making it out of this without any permanent scaring, physical or otherwise?” There’s a laugh that’s unfittingly light for this situation, and the eyes-which are the only thing Harry can really see- crinkle into happy half-moons. Despite himself, Harry feels a shred of hope embed itself (rather painfully) in his abdomen.

 “No.” The answer drops like a weight, crushing Harry’s ribs and taking all the air out of his lungs. He knew this would be the answer, but hearing it is a whole different thing than expecting it.

 Harry swallows, trying to bring saliva into his impossibly dry mouth. “Oh.”

 The next moments come in snapshots to Harry. He’s sure he’s about to pass out from the sheer terror.

 “My turn again. What’s your name?”

 The answer, barely a whisper, “I already told you that.”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s not an attractive shade on you.” A pause. “I bet red is.”

 “It’s not really- I’m too pale.” The arms on either side of him move in.

 When the voice comes, it’s dripping something Harry can’t describe, but he knows it’s dangerous. “That’s not the point, Harry. You’re a smart boy. Answer the question.”

 Harry doesn’t want to. He can see the instructions perfectly now in the darkness, and he knows how this will end. “Harry Edward Styles.” The last syllable echoes, sealing his fate.

 There’s a brush of something, lips perhaps? They catch on the corner of his jaw, and land on his neck. “Perfect. I’m Louis, by the way.” The arms on either side of him drop.

 And then Harry’s soul is sucked straight to hell.


	2. Home

Hell, Harry decides, looks a lot like an expensive hotel. Or at least, the part of Hell he’s seen does. 

He’d woken up in an extremely comfortable bed, flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, mimicking the way a dead body lays in its coffin. Good bumps rose on Harry’s arms and he’d quickly climbed out of bed. Then, he’d checked himself over. He was in the same clothes, and he even still had the Band-Aid on his finger from an unfortunate stray cat incident, but his shoes were oddly missing, as were his socks. The floors of his room –he refuses to call it a cell- are hardwood, and had chilled his feet. 

For being Hell, it was awfully cold. 

But Harry had woken up at least two hours ago, and there was only so much time someone could spend confined, even if outside of the room might be a flaming abyss that you’ll never return from. 

That’s another thing. Harry’s tried the door, it was one of the first things he did, and it’s not locked. He glances at the door again. He’s not quite sure what could happen, but he’s taken some things off the list, such as being a virgin sacrifice. First, he’s not a pretty girl in a white dress, and second, he’s not exactly a virgin. 

Just as Harry becomes sure that he’s come to a conclusion another half hour later, hand resting on the door knob, breath stuck in his throat, a parade of loud footsteps goes by outside. They don’t even pause at the door, instead fading away at the far end of what Harry assumes is a hallway. Harry waits a good minute or so until he’s sure there’s no one else coming, slowly opens the door, and steps out.  
Harry realizes he was wrong about his assumption. He’s not in a hallway, or dungeon, or scary sex play room, –blame the copy of Fifty Shades sitting on his bedside table at home- instead he’s in a spacious courtyard. Harry steps out a little further, and steps on one of his missing shoes. There’s no sign of his socks, or the other shoe, which Harry is a little bitter about. He sits down to put his one shoe on, since it’s better than nothing, and surveys his surroundings a bit more closely. 

The door he came out of is in the center of a wall with six more doors on either side of it. The three other walls that box the courtyard in are identical, and more duplicates of the same model are stacked on top of each other. Harry loses count at seventeen levels, and a few levels after where he stops, the levels disappear into an ominous mist. On the wall opposite Harry, an ornate elevator whirs quietly. The whirring and the frantic beating of Harry’s heart are the only sounds, aside from the gentle trickle of water. 

The courtyard itself, aside from the mist, is rather lovely. There’s a stone fountain in the middle with water trickling quietly over its sides and onto some artfully arranged rocks. There are paths that lead from each side of the room to the center, where a few benches sit around the fountain. The paths themselves are made of mosaic tile, and Harry’s tempted to follow one of them, go sit on one of the benches and never move from that spot. 

For as many rooms as Harry can see, it’s surprising that there’s no one else in the corridor. Slowly, Harry makes his way down the path to the center of the circle. Instead of stopping and planting himself on a bench, Harry continues to the opposite wall. The elevator doors open with a ding when he steps in front of the elevator, and Harry steps in without hesitation. There’s a little bit of pink fuzz on the floor. It’s the same fuzz that his socks always leave on his feet. The doors close with a gentle sound, and Harry swallows hard. He looks at the panel of gleaming buttons. There’s an insane amount, so Harry settles for the very first button, which has a little brass “L” beside it. He hopes that it means lobby, and not something like leeches, or little children screaming at you for the rest of your miserable life. The elevator begins a slow descent. Harry stares at the mirrored surface of the doors, but doesn’t recognize the person staring back. There are deep bags the colour of violets under his eyes, and he looks unearthly pale. He looks like he needs coffee, a long hot shower, and a good slap upside the head. The elevator doors slide open, revealing a long, dim hallway. Harry can only see about 15 feet ahead, but he can make out the rumpled little piece of cloth that can only be one of his socks. Harry walks over to the sock, which is a little left of the center of the hallway. This puts it in a position closer to the little passage way that branches off of the main hall Harry is in. 

It’s another game, and Harry, frankly, is sick of games, but he has no choice but to go along with it unless he wants to wander along the seemingly endless hallway forever. Spending an eternity in Hell is one thing, but spending it walking in a dreary hall is an entirely different type of torture, Harry picks up his sock and shoves it in his pocket and continues on his way in the new direction. Some of the doors in this passage have labels, but Harry doesn’t pause to read them. He keeps his eyes peeled for another sock or shoe, but is disappointed when he reaches a point of the hall where he his only option is a left turn, and the hall opens into a wide lobby-like area, complete with a check in desk, luggage carts, and bank of elevators. 

There’s also a lounge set off to the side, and a few people a milling around, some in wait-staff uniforms, some in casual clothes, and others dressed to the nines. Someone is sitting at the piano in the far corner of the lounge playing a Coldplay song. The whole scene is oddly peaceful, and Harry thinks for a moment that maybe he’s wrong about the whole “Hell” thing, that it was all a big mistake, or a hallucination, or something that ended up with him checked into a swanky hotel. 

Then he spots his other sock –neon pink with banana print- sitting in the middle of the lobby floor. Feeling a bit ridiculous in one shoe, Harry pads over to the sock and picks it up. He can see the room from a new angle now, and sees his other shoe propped up against the piano leg. Harry’s been blackout drunk only once before, and it did end sort of like this, except instead of his belongings strewn in a ridiculously nice hotel, they were strewn across his apartment. And that time there was no hallucination of a Devil, who liked to be called Louis, dragging him to Hell.

Harry’s managed to convince himself that this whole Hell thing was just paranoia. He probably did the whole Devil summoning thing, it didn’t work, he went to a bar and somewhere between the bar and a random hookup, he ended up here. The mist in the courtyard was just some effect of his hangover. He runs a hand through his matted hair and starts to make his way over to the piano to collect his other shoe. By the time he gets there, he’s even humming along to the tune being played. 

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles as he grabs his shoe and pulls out a near by chair to sit on while he puts it on. 

Harry’s squeezing his sockless foot into his shoe, as the piano player says, “It’s no problem,” in a voice that’s eerily familiar. 

“Do you, by any chance, know the name of this hotel?”

“The Royal, I believe.” 

“Brilliant…” Harry pats his pockets, but his phone his missing. “Do you by any chance have a phone I could borrow?” The piano player has stopped playing, and Harry can hear his feet tapping a staccato rhythm on the brass pedals. 

“We don’t really get cell service around here.” Harry watches the feet lower from the pedals and rest for a beat on the floor, before they turn sideways and bring the musician into view. 

Harry stands up, runs a few feet, falls to his knees in front of a potted plant –a fern, he notes- and throws up in it. He hasn’t eaten in hours, so only bile that burns at the back of his throat and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth comes out. Harry coughs and wipes hand across the back of his mouth. He’s shaking so hard he thinks he can feel his bones clattering, is sure he can hear it in the back of his mind. There’s slow, lazy footsteps sounding on the pristine tile of the lobby, and they’re getting louder, getting closer. Harry tries to stand, but he can’t get his body to listen. His feet are concrete and his joints are gelatin. He falls to the side and lays there, one cheek resting on cool tile. He’s facing the door, but can’t find the will to even drag himself the five feet it would require. There’s nowhere to go anyways. He’s trapped.   
Instead, he just stares at the glass doors. He watches the world outside and tries to calm down. His ribs feel like they’re contracting around his lungs, and the room tilts and sways under Harry’s cheek. Briefly, he closes his eyes and focuses on where his body comes into contact with the ground. Cheek to shoulders, torso to hips, thighs to shins. 

“Believe it or not,” comes a soft voice, “this isn’t the worst reaction I’ve ever seen.”

Harry’s eyes fly open. There’s a pair of shoes in front of him, the toes nearly touching his nose. They’re the same tapping shoes from the piano. He whines quietly –he doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth without throwing up again- and clenches his hands into fists at his sides. 

The person standing in front of Harry has gotten onto his knees and Harry has to stop and close his eyes, because if he sees that face again that means that everything is real, that he’s not crazy. The padded walls of an institution seem like a warm and welcome alternative to what’s happening. Suddenly there’s a hand on his back, and it just sits there for a moment. It slowly starts to move up and down his spine, and Harry goes rigid. 

Instead of the hot panic that’s made its home in his stomach flaring, a feeling of calmness seeps into Harry’s bones, like ice water. He rolls away from the hand, onto his back and open his eyes. 

The Devil is there, wearing a sympathetic smile and a pair of skinny jeans that Harry thinks just might be the definition of the word sin. And, wait, Harry thinks. 

What was that last thought? He blames it on his racing pulse and out-of-control heartbeat. The blood’s rushing too his head and he can’t think – or see- straight, because the Devil should not be that attractive, really. 

Harry finds it somewhere in himself to open his mouth, not throw up, and string together enough sounds to make a sentence. 

“Tell me this isn’t real…” And Harry knows he’s being a cliché, knows he should make some witty retort that some God out there will consider witty enough to lift him out of Hell. He should at least make some effort to do something productive, but the taste of bile still burns in the back of his throat and he’s so fucking scared. In the midst of his little episode, the lobby seems to have cleared out. 

The Devil pauses and looks at Harry for long time. “This isn’t real.” He says very slowly. The Devil waits a beat. “Did that help?” 

Harry starts to laugh. It starts out as a quiet chuckle, and grows to hysterical shrieking. The sound echoes from the high steeped ceilings and bounces off of the marble floor. Harry stands up, still laughing, and takes a few steps away from the Devil before turning back to face him. 

“I have to water my violets. I’ve got to go home.” Harry says with a grave tone. Then he crumples to the floor, catching his temple on the reception desk. 

Unconscious, Harry is unaware of Louis moving towards him. “I’d have an easier time helping you if you stopped calling me the Devil.” Louis mutters, hauling the taller boy up. He drags Harry over to the elevators, pressing a button and waiting impatiently. While Louis waits, he looks at his face. There’s a little bit of blood on Harry’s temple but aside from the grimace on his face he looks comically angelic. When the elevator doors open, Louis drags him in and sits him in the corner. 

“Welcome home.” He murmurs as the doors slide shut with a soft sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this update took so long! Some things have been happening in my personal life that just had to be dealt with first. Updates should come a little sooner now. I don't really like this chapter, but it's a necessary interlude. Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments on the last chapter!


	3. As Above, So Below

It's raining, it's a Tuesday, and there's still no sign of Harry. Liam presses a flyer to the chest of a lady with a bright red umbrella and towering snakeskin heels, and then watches him drop it once he's walked a few steps. The flyer lands in a sizable puddle, immediately beginning to distort the grinning picture of his missing friend, the sharp and distinct features blurring into a haze of peach, chocolate, bright green, and a small smudge of soft pink. It's one of three flyers that have fallen into that exact puddle, many others suffering the same fate in different locations up and down the street.

Liam grits his teeth and looks up, fat drops of rain settling on the high points of his face before running down off the sides. 

It's absolutely infuriating how little everyone cares, how the bold word "MISSING" doesn't make their hearts race as fast as Liam's has been. It hammered against his ribcage as he and Niall sat up waiting for Harry to come home. It began to make vertical leaps when he didn't return the next day and didn't answer any of their texts. It knocked against his vocal chords as he and Niall made the police report, taking any chance at speaking away from him when the police went to the church and found a shattered mirror and Harry’s phone, also shattered. It pressed against the roof of his mouth insistently while he sat up making the posters, eyes going sore from staring at the computer screen for so long, trying to figure out which shade of red text would attract the most attention. 

He glances across the street to the little cafe he told Niall to wait in after the blonde threatened to shove the briefcase of a businessman up his rear end.

"He just crumpled it up! Right in front of me! The filthy cu-" Niall had been in the middle of exclaiming, arms flailing as Liam forced him inside and to a table in the corner. His cheeks had been bright red, and Liam could've easily taken the extra pigmentation as a sign of anger, but he saw the glassy coating on Niall's baby blues. It looked like the rain had gotten trapped inside.

Shoving the rest of the flyers inside his jacket to prevent further damage, Liam begins to fight his way against the throngs of people to the crosswalk. He collapses into a chair across from Niall a few minutes later. A cup of coffee sits waiting for him, just to the left of a plate with a small pile of crumbs pooled in the center. Niall worries an empty muffin wrapper between his fingers without looking away from the rain-streaked window. The world outside is kaleidoscope of grey-blue, with the occasional flashes of the stoplights shifting and reflecting off the pavement. Above, the sky is the colour of wet cement. Liam allows Niall to sit in silence a while longer, sipping his coffee idly.

The scene is almost normal. Mundane to the point when the bell above the café door rings Liam half turns in his seat, expecting Harry to be walking in while shaking the droplets off of his bright yellow duck umbrella, a lopsided grin on his face and a strange story about running away with the circus for a couple of days or maybe a spa retreat bubbling up to his lips before he even takes three steps. Instead, an older woman with a smeary-pink mouth pressed into a firm line and a plethora of wrinkles collecting on her brow makes her way inside with a newspaper held over her head for protection. Liam watches the woman make her way to the counter before turning back to Niall.

“I don’t want to go back to the apartment.” Niall says finally, turning away from the window. The redness in his cheeks has gone down, replaced by a slight pink tinge around his nose and eyes. Liam nods in understanding, thinking about the space Harry takes up in a room. In any given social event, you could always find Harry by listening for a raucous bark of laughter, or even just by following the admiring whispers of other guests.

Liam thinks about the posters tucked in his jacket. Thinks that if he could just make the people on the street understand who Harry is, that maybe they’d care. Outside on the street a man bumps into a young girl, causing her to drop her rhinestone-covered clutch. He hurries on without an apology, and Liam thinks that he’s probably wrong.

He throws down some money on the table and stands, gesturing for Niall to follow. Together they exit the café, back out into the downpour.

-

Back in hell, Harry wakes up exactly where he began. He sits up, his head spinning and knees sore. As the room begins to still

First, his mouth tastes like hot garbage and his throat burns like the time he drank a capful of long-expired drain cleaner on a five-dollar dare. Second, he’s now wearing a red semi-sheer shirt that’s almost entirely unbuttoned. Finally, the door that leads out to the courtyard is already open, and a thin stream of smoke ebbs and flows from just around the corner.

Harry rolls off of the bed, depositing himself on the floor with a loud thud. He tenses and half curls, remaining ducked on the floor out of view from the door. A moment passes without a single sound aside from the soft gurgle of the fountain all the way out in the courtyard. Harry slowly sits up, his curls falling into his eyes. He crawls the majority of the way to the door, only standing up once he’s sure there’s no one outside.

His checks weren’t enough, apparently. Leaning against the wall outside with a cigarette dangling from his cursed pink lips is Louis. Or the Devil. Both, apparently.

Harry isn’t quite sure what that Venn Diagram would look like.

“Morning, sunshine. And before you go about with your dramatics, it’s Louis, alright?” He drawls, eyeing Harry too casually. When it becomes clear that Harry has no intention of speaking, the moment stretching out before them like a cat waking from a nap, Louis continues. “We’ve got lots to see today. Normally we have a tour group, but you arrived in our off-season. Lucky for you, that makes me your tour guide.” Louis stubs out his cigarette against the brick as he speaks, creating a black smear on the wall. Then he pushes off, striding down the hall and leaving Harry to either catch up or get left behind.

As Harry catches up, Louis tosses his cigarette butt in a cement planter. “Hell has an off season?” Harry says, slightly out of breath from his brief jog. His curiosity is over-taking common sense, the scene in the lobby and the circumstances of how he got here getting tucked back between crates of memories in his head.

“Doesn’t everything?” Quips Louis, never slowing his pace.

Harry frowns. “I guess so.” The plush carpet muffles their footsteps, as they head down a hallway different than the one Harry was previously drawn down.

Louis walks silently for just a few seconds before glancing over his shoulder at Harry. “Actually, this is probably the only part of Hell that has slow periods. Summonings slow down outside of summer and fall. You know, with teenage boredom and Halloween fever being the cause of most of the séances and all.”

The statements struck Harry as odd. The mention of a ‘part’ of Hell implied that there was much more than this seemingly endless hotel. Louis pushes open a door and stepped aside to let Harry walk through. The change in surroundings momentarily distracts Harry. They’ve walked into a stairwell, and looking up, it seems endless. Louis takes the lead again, passing Harry and seeming to glide up the first flight. He turns to wait for Harry.

By the time they’ve done a few flights, Harry’s a bit out of breath. Louis chatters on about the abundance of elevators The Royal has, and how this stairwell is one of only two and how surprised he is that obesity isn’t more of a problem in Hell. Though Harry easily has longer legs, he finds himself struggling to keep up. The Devil is at work here, he decides.

That single bitter thought snaps him out of it.

“Wait a minute, why am I following you around? You kidnapped me!” Louis turns around at this, leans against the railing all slow and cool like he’s the brooding love interest in an Indie drama flick. His smile is slow to form but bright enough to blind anyone unprepared.

“You’re the one that summoned me, sweet-cheeks. Now, I’m trying to be a good host. I could very well have one of my minions show you around,” The smile on his lips cools into a smirk, “but I chose to _personally_ show you around my hotel. Are hostile accusations an appropriate way to repay my hospitality?”

Harry pauses as he tries to digest all of the information he’s been given. After dusting off a stair, he sits down. Louis watches him with a quirked eyebrow. “Sorry… I guess. I just have some questions.” Louis’ face doesn’t change, and Harry is suddenly taken back into that church, sitting across from the mirror at the stony face with the strange sparkle in its eyes. For the first time, Harry really makes the connection between that face and the sprite-like man before him. They seem like entirely different people.

“It’s an act. It’s what the people want. Who am I to deny them it?” Louis says suddenly. He must register the alarm on Harry’s face, because he adds, “You think loudly.”

“You can hear thoughts?”

“Only if I really try. Newbies are easy to read.” Louis says, like it just makes perfect sense.

“Okay… well… what did you mean when you said-“ Harry cuts off at the abrupt beeping from the pager- _a pager?-_ on Louis’ hip. Both boys turn to look at the little plastic rectangle.

“Shit, sorry Harry. I’ve got some business to attend to. How about you meet me for tea in my suite tomorrow. I’ll answer any questions you have then.” Louis gives Harry a strange pat on the cheek as he brushes by, his fingertips strangely rough. Louis climbs up another flight of stairs, out of Harry’s line of sight. Harry sags against the wall, utterly exhausted. “By the way,” a voice floats down. “I was right about red suiting you.”

A door opens and closes, leaving Harry alone in the stairwell and more confused than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is weird. 
> 
> This is my first ever fic on ao3, and I'm so excited to share it. I can't guarantee how fast the updates will come, or the quality...
> 
> Anyways, this was inspired by a sixpenceee forgotten dare. The picture at the top scared the crap out of me, so I'll share the link but please be warned that it is kind of creepy. 
> 
> http://sixpenceee.com/post/126799505567/forgotten-dare-4-the-devils-game-this-is-a-set
> 
> I'm super open to any criticism, just please don't be really unreasonably harsh. Or, if there's any fic writers out there willing to take a sister under their wing... (That just gave me a great idea for another story) Also, I'm extremely aware that this is incredibly short compared to other works, and that's something I'll try to work on. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> -Abby


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